So Francis continued. “Oh Jasp’r, my sweeting, ye was a fierce stallon. Can we does’it agin?”
At that further entreaty Jasper let out a muffled groan that sounded a cross between a chuckle and assent, then began to rollover. “Whys’ a’course me little ducklin’. Jasper’s always ready fer yea.”
As the prominent nose surfaced from the coverlet, Francis seized it with one hand, dragging the rest of head into the daylight and wedged the blade of his dagger against the base of his minion’s nose. “Glad to hear it Bottoph!”
“Oii! Owww! M’ dose! M’ dose!”
Having got the attention of his missing minion Francis bent closer and dropped the sibilant whisper of shy temptation. “Now Bottoph, don’t move or you’ll need both hands to pick yer nose when yer sneeze!”
“Baster Brin! Oii Baster Brin!”
“Why it’s good to see you remember your dear and loving master.” On the last word Francis pulled the blade edge up hard against the septum and Jasper’s eyes widened while the muffled complaints turned to not so muffled whimpers.
“Cos last night Bottoph yea didn’t. Yea measly cowardly rat, yea squealed like a frightened babe and shot off, leaving me with that abomination.” Francis didn’t need to shout. He kept his voice perfectly calm and reasonable even as a small trickle of blood leaked over the blade and slid drop by drop down Jasper’s very pale cheeks. “Now I’m a tolerant master and generous, aren’t I?”
His minion tried to nod readily in agreement and came up against the sharp edge of retribution and squeaked instead. “Ess, ess!”
“Good! Now due to your manifest errors, your loving master is in a bit of difficulty with our dear friend Cardinal Wolsey. His eminence wants to know how that poor girl came to die in such a horrible way.”
If it were possible Bottoph’s eyes widened further in apprehension and tiny beads of sweat started to gather in his reddish eyebrows.
Francis gave a cold smile. It felt quite heartening to share his troubles and if he continued calm and reasonable, his fallen angel would have no reason to stir. “Y’ know, there’s an simple way out of this for me. I could claim that my poor servant was overcome by some ravening madness and slew the girl in that hideous fashion. It would be so easy for me to whistle up several witnesses to your confession afore you slew yourself in a fit of melancholy…or some such accident.”
Poor Bottoph gulped noisily and tried to wet his lips without encouraging any further movement of the blade.
“Now I said to myself, Francis, cos as yea know I use my given name in personal conversation with another of my rank, well Francis that may be the easy way, but it still sullies the family reputation and our mother would be a mickel distraught.” Francis lent closer, overshadowing his servant and stared him in the eye. “That wouldn’t do, I agrees with myself. This problem needs to go away permanently so that neither His Eminence nor us will ever be troubled by it again. So I asked how this could be so? Wouldn’t Bottoph be the perfect catspaw?”
Francis let a menacing smile spread across his face. “Well said I to meself, ‘Bottoph for all his cowardly faults is a true and loyal servant’. It would be unfair to have him suffer the fate of a common murderer when he could be so helpful.”
Francis moved the blade away from Bottoph’s nose as he spoke, and using it as a pointer, tapped the needle sharp tip against his cheek bone right below the eye.
Bottoph was transfixed by the movement, his orb bobbing up and down with the movement. “Yeth, yeth!”
Once more Francis smiled into the face of his servant, this time with a certain amount of gloating satisfaction and of course a hint that this status could change. “Excellent, excellent. I thought you’d see sense. Now Bottoph my most loyal and obedient servant, it is a simple thing you need to do for your loving lord and master. We need to see the fellow you sell the real relics too.”
Even in this perilous position Bottoph’s natural reflex, his bad habit in fact was to lie, to dissuade. “B’Lord…”
Francis allowed his fallen angel a brief view out his eyes as the blade tip cut a small divot out of Ol’ Jasper’s pale cheek. The warning was noted.
Bottoph, now whiter than a sheet and shaking, shrunk back into the limited cover of the coverlet. “I swears b’ by buther’s bones Baster Bryan I’m yea faithful ban. Eben to ‘ell I’d stand by ‘ee!”
Francis nodded and lent back, slipping the blade back into its belt sheath. Every now and then his servant required a gentle reminder of the Lord God’s ordained order for the world. Later on though he had to wonder about his minion’s poor choice of words and the plays of Lady Fortuna.
***
Chapter 4: Agryppa Arcanum - Blackfriars
Once more Francis stilled himself to patience. After their little chat, Bottoph had readily agreed to introduce him to the ‘relic dealer’. Well that’s what his minion called him. Francis would’ve been the most foolish of masters to believe that simple bare–boned description as the truth. He’d prospered at the Royal Court not just because he was a close companion to the King, but also because he kept a very close watch on the lesser ‘currents’ of the court and then tracked the ripples to their sources. That little practice of intellect had proven to be very useful, warning him several times of dangerous shifts in the court factions. In fact this very situation was in every respect linked to his efforts to track the moves of his rivals, though this particular outcome was not one that Francis would ever have imagined.
Thus here Francis stood outside an elegant four storey brick–faced house in Blackfriars worthy of any lord. With grim fascination he watched Bottoph’s ham handed attempt at politely beating on the door to gain them admittance. By Christ’s blood, he desperately needed to flesh out his court retinue with some liverymen of more impressive bearing than the scrawny Bottoph. Unfortunately that required more gilt than his stipend as Master of the Toils allowed. As for his other two liverymen, Robert and Giffard, they were both good men and loyal to his family, but as masters of their craft in the surrounding deer parks, it served the Bryan interests best if they continued providing for the King’s pleasure. Thus in this crucial time he was left with that red headed miscreant and rogue, Bottoph.
Francis sighed and shook his head as his clumsy minion began a further assault upon the wooden portal. This was not the discretion he’d wanted. For all its monastic associations, Blackfriars was a relatively busy place and it was just a stone’s throw away from his Majesty’s preferred London palace across the Fleete at Bridewell.
Finally somewhat before he was tempted to use Bottoph’s head as a knocker, the door eased open revealing the large bulk of a frowning doorman. “What do yea want? If’n yer ill, the master’s apprentice is at the Bridewell apothecary.”
It seemed to be the start of a rote recitation. Then the doorman squinted at the signally unimpressive figure of Bottoph and shuddered to a halt, frowning in deep annoyance. “What…what are yer doing here? The master said yer weren’t to call till sunset!”
Francis smiled. So Bottoph’s presence was unwelcome in daylight. Now wasn’t that a surprise! Brusquely he pushed past his minion as Ol’ Jasper attempted an inventive excuse and fronted the door warden. “You sirrah. Tell your master I’m here on business of the court, and at the direct command of the Lord Chancellor.”
Those were marvellously useful words and Francis was impressed by the instant compliance. The door was swung wide and the servitor gave a passable bow, beckoning him inside. Even better the servitor humbly muttered the appropriate courteous phrases of welcome and invited him to sample the ewer of Rhenish wine on a side table before he hurried off to find his master.
Francis pulled off his gloves and tucked them into his doublet. As for Bottoph, his worthless minion hopped nervously from foot to foot. At a guess the door warden had let slip too much of his secret dealings. By rights Bottoph should pour a cup for his master, but Francis didn’t feel like a drenching from those trembling hands so instead he serve
d himself and inspected the abode of the ‘relic dealer’.
Whoever it was had a serious amount of gilt. The relic trade must be booming and as per the fashion, if you had it flaunt it, or else your fellows would account you a poverty stricken miser. Apart from the silver ewer and gilded tray the room he was in was panelled in pale burnished oak, and to his left by the stairway was a dramatic statement of wealth, a large tapestry. As Francis knew from the care taken in transporting the royal collection of tapestries, they were a pricy decoration. Curious he walked over, sipping the silver cup of Rhenish wine. The tapestry was at a guess some twelve feet long and five wide. From close inspection his mother would approve of the stitching—very fine Flemish work, very fine indeed. The details were picked out in silk with some patterns of silver and maybe gold thread. In his opinion it was as finely crafted as the set His Majesty had on display at Bridewell. this one featured a selection of scenes from Mallory’s chivalric tale of King Arthur the claimed distant ancestor of the royal Tudor line, and displayed tastes similar to those of his royal master.
Francis was very familiar with this part of the story cycle. He’d even penned a set of verses for a tournament last year at Greenwich, comparing that event with one at Arthur’s fair Camelot. His Majesty had been impressed and given him the gift of several barrels of royal sack as a reward. This panorama concerned the search for the Sangreal by the Knights of the Round Table. He could see Percival and Galahad identified by their heraldic devices. He thought one of the other figures had to be Lancelot by the representation of a sleeping knight and a vision of the golden glory of the Sangreal. There were still nine more panels in the tapestry and Francis tried to puzzle out their significance, since from memory there were only nine stories in the cycle and here were twelve separate tales.
His puzzling though was cut short by a loud but polite cough. A servant stood at the foot of the stairs and bowing murmured quietly that his master awaited his honoured guest. Giving a brief gesture to Bottoph who was hovering ‘innocently’ by the ewer of Rhenish, Francis proceeded up the stairs followed by his reluctant liveryman. Apart from the tapestry the display of ostentation continued up the staircase with a selection of painted images split between ones he recognised from Mallory’s tales and a selection of saints. The guiding servant stopped two doors along, and politely rapped on a wooden door overhung with a simple crucifix, and then swung it open, waving him inside. Before Bottoph could follow him in, Francis gave a peremptory signal that pinned him in the corridor. His little display earlier in the alehouse had reminded his minion of the proper order. Still it was best not to provide Bottoph with too many temptations to his wavering honesty. He also suspected that this meeting would go more smoothly if it were witness free, or at the least Bottoph free.
Like the entrance hall this room proclaimed in strident tones the quality and status of its tenant, though here the message was a deeper one of learning, wisdom and mystery. The room itself was large. It had to be to fit in all shelves of books, the various devices of spheres and arcs of gleaming bronze, and the remnants of strange beasts suspended in frames. Lastly occupying the centre was a large mechanical contrivance. It stood some several feet tall consisting of a large globe surrounded by several smaller orbs suspended on bronze arcs that descended into its shadowy base. Francis wasn’t a fool he recognised this immediately as a representation of the interlocking crystal spheres of the celestial system that the philosophers like Plato described. As he stood there the smaller orbs slowly performed a steady revolution around the large central globe as if driven by some hidden contrivance. He resisted the impulse to cross himself but by Christ it was…it was incredible! Master More had spoken of something like this as had a foreign writer that tagged along with him. Now who was again? Ah yes, now he remembered the fellow’s name, Erasmus of Rotterdam.
A loud cough broke his concentration and startled, Francis spun around to see a tall elderly man emerge from the shadows behind the device dressed in the sober gown of a physician. “Hmm…yes indeed. Tis an amazing sight sir. It strikes many of my visitors speechless, some for the span of their visit.”
That ended in a polite chuckle indicating, as it seemed to Francis, an appreciation of the foibles and foolishness of man. Francis sketched a polite bow to his host though he still found the movements of the contrivance as distracting as his host implied. It’s creaking and metallic tapping was absorbingly engaging. His fallen angel brought to mind the play of string with a kitten and Francis pursed his lips and gave his head a shake to lose the apt simile.
His host however had noticed the gesture and gave what Francis interpreted as a quiet smile of satisfaction and stroked his full greyish beard. “My servant mentioned a matter regarding, ahh the Lord Chancellor?”
Francis focused his full attention on his apparent host. As he’d first seen the fellow was of moderately tall height and had a well groomed, grey–flecked beard that tapered down to the top of his chest. The dark gown and apparel was of the best quality, and from the cut, cloth and style had instantly told Francis that this man considered himself one of the learned, or was at least wealthy and influential enough to claim the status. The few rings on his hands also spoke quietly and eloquently of position. If he wasn’t mistaken one of them was a large cabochon ruby. He’d inherited one like that from his father, and that was half the size of the one decorating the hand of his host. Then there was how this fellow stood, with not the least sign of deference at the mention of Wolsey. In fact his dark brown eyes held a hint of arrogant amusement. Not that Francis expected deference to him in this rough garb, but still as he knew to his cost, mention of the Cardinal brought the fawner out in even the proudest man.
“Yes Master…?” Francis began, trying not to sound tentative.
His host’s smile tweaked a fingernail’s breadth further and the fellow paused an instant before answering. “It is Doctor, good sir, Doctor Agryppa. I am but a humble worker of astrological charts with some small skill in physick and artificers’ trinkets.” The doctor flicked his long fingers in a depreciating manner towards the large ticking array of the celestial heavens.
Francis returned a polite nod and his eyes narrowed. This man was a better player at the mask of modesty that even Wolsey. His fallen angel whispered for him to beware. The layout of the room and the array of devices spoke volumes more than its owner. His mind clearly encompassed the working of the heavens and had designed this fascinating simulacrum. Here was no strutting, boasting fool fresh at court with an empty head and a bulging cod piece.
For a moment Francis toyed with the less abstract version of that fair dame Lady Truth. However the warning hit home so instead he followed his prior plan and unrobed the tempting rosy tits of Mistress Deception. “Doctor Agryppa, our Sovereign’s most excellent Lord Chancellor has entrusted me with the solving of an unpleasant incident at the Palace of Westminster.”
This blandly neutral opening was received with just a slight tilt of the head in return. The doctor didn’t speak, but instead stroked his beard as if in deep contemplation, returning a penetrating inspection with his almost midnight dark–brown eyes.
Francis stilled himself to endure it, though his fallen angel prompted the question, ‘Did this collector of relic and artificers’ devices know?’
Finally after an extended silence that was measured by the steady metallic click of the celestial device he spoke one more. “Hmm, as any loyal subject I am always at the service of the Lord Chancellor, Master Bryan, but…?”
Francis stifled a curse. This doctor was too damned clever. He’d been identified too soon in his play. A pity that! This oblique tactic had worked before in assessing foreknowledge of his rivals at court. So instead Francis shifted tactics and unwound some more of the story. “A young girl who served at the palace was found horribly slain this morning.”
Dr Agryppa’s chin tilted in assent. “I’m sorry to hear that. May she rest in God’s mercy.”
As was common, Dr Agryppa flicked
a quick sign of the cross over his chest, but still he showed little concern with the message and shrugged. “But a murder at Westminster isn’t so uncommon in these decayed times. I’d thought that by tradition any death was dealt with by the local coroner or a royal physician. While I’m flattered that his eminence recalls my practice of physick, I cannot see how I can be of assistance.”
To Francis this deflecting of the ‘request’ was annoying. Most men jumped at the chance to gain the favour of Wolsey. His fallen angel reminded him that some may have a greater desire to avoid the bloated priest—he certainly did. It may have been a damned foolish thing to do but Francis took a chance and launched out further into the unsullied waters of truth. “Doctor, by report this girl was involved in some dark magicks, and which, which…” Now it was his turn to sketch a cross. “Which according to witnesses may have caused her death.”
There, he’d said it, the truth, well a goodly amount anyway. His fallen angel was impressed at the boldness. And now it was time to set the lure. “As well the Lord Chancellor felt this was an issue of some…ah, discretion. It needn’t involve any of the clerics or the Dean of Westminster. His Eminence of course doesn’t need to explain why he instantly turned towards you. Your work in this sphere has his most profound respect”
For the first part of his speech the good doctor was blandly impassive, but when it came to the flattery those almost black eyes acquired a sudden spark of what interest, speculation? Once more the long tock, tock, tock of the movements of the celestial spheres paced out an inordinate length of silence. Francis could almost feel his eyes glaze with the effort of keeping them fixed and he poured every peck of honesty into his face, almost screaming with the effort.
With an abrupt nod Dr Agryppa gave his assent. “Hmm, I will need to make some preparations for the ahh inspection. I fear, Master Bryan, I cannot be ready before five of the clock just afore sunset. Where is the corpse being held?”
Darkness Divined (Dark Devices) Page 4